


Epilim

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AC - Freeform, AED, Ableism, Anti-Convulsant, Anti-Epileptic Drugs, Denial, Epilepsy, Epilim, Fit, Focal Seizure, Gen, Holmes Family, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Medical, Medication, Memories, Memory, Monologue, Myoclonics, Myoclonus, Seizure, Seizures, Sodium Valproate, T/C Seizure, absence seizure, accidental ableism, convulsion, epileptic, fitting, grand mal, inner monologue, myoclonic, myoclonic jerks, myoclonic seizure, petit mal, seizure disorder, tonic clonic seizure, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months down the line, and Sherlock's medication is working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilim

The box was large and white, with the brand name of the medication printed in a thick text. Arial, perhaps. It read: Epilim. Beneath that was the sticker bearing the dosage notes, prescription delivery date, pharmacy name and Sherlock’s full name. He examined it in his hands with long, slender fingers turning it over. 

 

It had been six months, now; six whole months of twice-daily administration of the oblong, purple tablets that tasted horrific when the coating got damaged and they began to dissolve in his mouth before he had time to take a sip of his milk. They were helping, though. His seizures were far from eradicated, but he had only had one of those heavy, scary seizures since the first at school and that was a relief. He hadn’t liked the way he felt when he’d woken up, full of confusion and anxiety, his heart beating heavily in his chest and his head buzzing and agonising at him with a sharp, stabbing pain. He especially had hated waking up to people staring at him, his clothes wet and soiled and his face slick with drool. 

The jerkiness continued, though, and that was a real pain. He’d taken to trying to hoover his breakfast, medication and glass of milk up as quickly as possible when he woke. It was like a game, and one he intended on winning every, single day. He usually had about thirty-minutes before the jerking started; by now he’d mastered the art of sitting patiently at the breakfast table while the clusters of myoclonic jerks shook, twitched and contracted along his right arm, making his fingers clench in and out and his shoulder feel like it might dislocate. Sometimes they’d come and go for about an hour, other times - usually when he was feeling more tired - they could plague him in groups of five or ten for three or four hours. 

But it was the seizures he didn’t notice that everyone else seemed to. His jerky hand he could cope with, but being unaware of something about himself that everyone else saw was not something Sherlock Holmes was accustomed to. He hated at dinner time when his parents would smile at him across the table and then, in a flash, be looking at him as though he’d just picked the plate of food up and smooshed it into his face. 

“They only last a few seconds,” Mycroft had told him a few weeks after the neon sign of Epilepsy was emblazoned on a pinboard above his head. “You just look a little like you’re daydreaming, sometimes make a sighing noise.” He’d explained. Sherlock didn’t like that - he didn’t like being noisy without knowing it, he didn’t like pulling faces he wasn’t in control of. Still, he told himself, perhaps that was better than a repeat of the floor show he’d put on at school. 

He’d heard all about it from his classmates, when he returned to school almost a month after his diagnosis was confirmed. Medicated, self-conscious and nervous about returning, he’d been stared at more than usual, laughed at, mocked, and been given more than one relayed account of what had happened - once, somebody had even acted it out for him. The acting had frightened him, and his anxiety over that happening to him again had grown. 

The second time he had a seizure like that - a big one, his mother called it - he’d been at home. It was the day after Christmas and the previous day had been busy and eventful, full of visits and was followed by a long and late night. “It was the lack of sleep,” Mycroft had said, “You were just tired.” He’d woken up on the boxing day morning with a headache and almost immediate limb jerks that would not let up. He had tablets to take for that - for the times when the seizures were pushing his patience to the limit - but for some reason they didn’t work that day. Mycroft had called it ‘Status Epilepticus’ but Sherlock didn’t know what it meant. “Take the diazepam,” He’d said to him, “It’ll help.” But it didn’t. By lunchtime, he was lying in his bed in just his underwear and a t-shirt with his Mum sitting beside him on the bed. His head hurt, his mouth tasted bloody and he felt like every muscle in his body ached like they never had before. 

“You had a big one,” She’d said to him. “But you’re okay now, my darling.” If she had said anything else to him, he didn’t remember. He slept a lot for the rest of the day, and quite solidly all through the night, too. Two in six months was good, he considered. The tablets were working. And at least it wasn’t at school. But he hated the tablets; hated the routine, the specific times, the way they made him feel hungry in one minute and sick and like he had diarrhea the next. He’d already gained weight, but his mother had commented on how healthy he looked. 

He wore a medical ID bracelet when he wasn’t in the house. A simple, silver chain with an ID bar that read “Sherlock Holmes - EPILEPSY” on one side and, on the other, bore the medical alert symbol. Mycroft had told him when it was bought that, if he wanted, they could have it engraved with an emergency telephone number so that if he had a “big seizure” in public, people would have access to the phone number for their parents. But Sherlock didn’t like that idea. 

 

He reached into the box and took out the information leaflet. He’d read it back to front several times in the last six months. He always liked to make sure he read it each time his prescription was filled - something about making sure he still remembered the side effects and drug reactions made him feel smart. 

**DO NOT CRUSH OR CHEW THE TABLETS**

“Of course,” He mumbled to himself, “Change the composition, change the way it works.” He tutted. “Morons.” 

**TELL YOUR DOCTOR IF YOU EXPERIENCE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING…**

“Bedwetting,” He crinkled his nose. “I have never wet the bed. Never.” He whispered. He pushed the leaflet back inside the box and took out the top, foil strip of tablets. His nimble fingers effortlessly pushed out the first tablet in the zigzag line of pills and he popped it onto the table, beside his waiting cup of tea and buttered toast. “Eight am, eight pm,” He recited to himself. “First thing in the morning, last thing in the evening.” It was just after eight pm and he was gearing himself up for the swallow. He pushed the strip back into the box, closed the lid and set the box down in front of him. With a pincer grip, he picked up the tablet and examined it. In tact. Getting his cup of tea ready, he pushed the tablet into his mouth and took two, big mouthfuls of his tea immediately after, swallowing hard - with a little struggle at the volume - until he felt the tablet and liquid slide down his throat together. He licked his lips and took another, smaller mouthful of his tea. 

He put the cup down on the table and reached for a slice of toast from the plate beside it. He tore off a small strip and pushed it into his mouth, chewing quietly and swallowing after a moment. Finishing one of the two slices, he left the cup and plate on the table and got to his feet. He took the pill box with him, tucking it back into the kitchen cabinet alongside the PRN diazepam and pre-printed repeat prescription for the following refill. He closed the cabinet door and turned around, resting his small bottom on the kitchen counter and looked around the quiet kitchen. His parents were in the lounge, resting together on the sofa in front of the television with the fire on to warm the room. Mycroft was upstairs in his room, plotting world domination, no doubt, under the guise of studying for his final exams before the end of the school year. 

After the summer break, Mycroft would be leaving the family home to go to university. Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted that to happen. Aged eleven and a half, he wasn’t sure he wanted his big brother to disappear for months on end and only come home at the holidays. Mycroft had promised he could visit, of course, but that would soon grow boring for both of them, Sherlock knew. He sighed and pushed himself up from the counter, swinging his long arms as he moved quietly through the kitchen and into the living room to his parents. He peered around the door and loitered until his mother ‘sensed’ his presence and looked across to the low doorway. 

“Hello, my darling,” Violet smiled. “Everything okay?” 

Sherlock nodded his head, “I’m not tired yet,” He said quietly, “I’m going to read in my room for a bit.” 

“Not too late settling down, my darling,” Violet warned lovingly. “We’re going to Granny’s tomorrow for Sunday lunch and I want you alert.” She gave another smile. 

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to go to Granny’s for Sunday lunch. That meant a whole family gathering - cousins, aunts and uncles, and social niceties. He sighed through his nose and nodded his head. “Okay,” He promised. 

“Goodnight, son.” Siger called, as Sherlock walked past them without another word, out of the rear lounge door and into the hallway. “He looks a little peaky,” he commented to his wife. 

“Sherlock’s perhaps the palest child I’ve ever come into contact with,” Violet smiled at her husband. “He’s fine.” She nodded, as if to convince herself, too. “I do hope he stays present tomorrow.” She said quietly. “It wouldn’t do to have to explain everything to everybody. It wouldn’t be fair on Sherlock.” 

“We can’t keep pretending to the family that there is nothing to be aware of, though.” Siger reasoned. “Suppose he has a _big one_ if he’s playing with Millie and Alison in the garden and you and I or Mike aren’t around?” 

Violet mused on her husband’s concern. “No,” She shook her head. “No, he’s fine.” She gave an affirming nod. “Sherlock is fine.”


End file.
